


The terribly unfortunate incarceration of Teague Martin.

by orphan_account



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Kink Meme, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Semi-Clothed Sex, Torture, not consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3937423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Martin is found to have assisted Corvo Attano's escape, the High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell finds that he can cash in on the situation. Not in an altruistic way, however. </p><p>(plot with a bit of porn)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The terribly unfortunate incarceration of Teague Martin.

Most overseers know most overseers, but they all know Teague Martin. And Teague? He knows everybody. From maid to butler, potter to pirate, merchant to gendarme. He commands something betwixt respect and ill concealed contempt from some, eerie adoration from others, but all harbour some small pang of jealousy over how he never falls from the loop of news. Each instance is something he knows, each deal made in alleys, each person guarding the corridors of the Abbey and the common streets laid out before his mind's eye like an ever-shifting map. It is no wonder overseers try to earn his favour, or at least not do wrong by him.

He makes knowing into an art form, really. And all are aware that knowing is the window to darkness, for it is intelligence that pushes the common to strive for the great, but alas!- power corrupts.

Predictably, the overseers are not surprised when Teague Martin is dragged through the halls, held up on both sides by his shoulders. His mask is still on for then, but rumors such as these spread like fire through dry grass among the ranks and they _know_. He`s quiet for someone in his position, head half-hung, as if in shame (At being caught or committing the deed, tongues ask one another) or resignation.

And come the eve, they all trade words as they eat supper. “High treason,” says one “Misunderstanding” another. “It'll be the brand for him” and “I do not believe it.” like blades clashing. So many opinions and so many thoughts, but one sentence is heard clearest among them.

“Teague Martin has been arrested for his alleged assistance in the escape of Corvo Attano.”

Oh, what a riot it makes. But even the ones who speak of Teague`s innocence do just that - speak. Such is the folly of man, for even ones so pure and diligent in obeying the creed of the holy are cowards and sloths. And none would stand against the horribly haematic maroon of Thaddeus' Campbell`s coat and wax seal for anything less than their own skins, let alone someone as infamous as Overseer Martin, no matter what boon they could undoubtedly get from him for it later.

\--

The two holding Teague shove him through the tall mahogany doors of the High Overseer`s office, then yank him down by the collar into the single chair just opposite Campbell`s desk. Jerky hands remove the overseer`s mask and pull back his hood roughly. The golden false face is placed on the edge of the table, outside up.

Martin makes to rub his jaw, but his hand is seized by the wrist and tugged to place on the armrest. _“Don't move_ ”, seems to be the message.

The High Overseer regards the man sitting opposite, eyes looking wary from behind his interlocked fingers for half a minute or so before waving the two on either side of Teague away.

The doors click shut after them.

“I have a feeling you know why you're here, overseer Martin.”

No answer, but Campbell`s voice is relaxed and composed when he tries again.

“A little birdy told me you had some part in the prison break of Corvo Attano.”

For his credit, Martin doesn't even twitch. His face is as unwavering as a statue`s and the timbre of his voice rivals Thaddeus' in the way it is lax, but the added subtleness of his drawl gives it an impenetrable nonchalance.

“I`m not sure small birds are the most trustworthy of informants, High Overseer.”

Campbell`s eyes narrow just a millimeter or so. Then, he sighs, voice a bit lighter.

“I suppose it would be presumptuous to expect an admission right away.”

Martin agitates faintly, Adam`s apple bobbing as he swallows the fraying of his nerves away, but neither his voice shakes even slightly or the rest of him gives it away.

“Yes, probably.”

Campbell stares him down for a while again, and Teague feels like a swarm of dragonflies has made home in his chest. It`s sickeningly disconcerting, and then Campbell smiles and his eyes take on a gleam for a fraction of a second and Martin can't decipher what it means quick enough because it disappears as quickly as it had come.

“Well, worry not, for the Abbey always finds the guilt it seeks. We’ve all the time in the world.”

One way or another they’d get him, a threat underlying the easiness of his voice - if not for the original charges then for something else. The obsolete are always removed. Teague Martin knows this. Fears this. Alone and powerless in enemy territory, before the gaping maw of one of the currently most dangerous men in the empire.

Then, called by Campbell, the two overseers come back in to escort him to the stocks.

\--

He figure out very quickly that it is unwise to fidget. It`s not just about how the iron of his shackles bites and irritates his skin to a raw redness through his layers of dress but also how movement piques the curiosity of the rats. Yes, the people, overseers mostly, stomp on them and break their tiny bones, but there are still many who remain, shiny noses and pitch black eyes turned to him, whiskers twitching.

Some climb the steps and nibble his boots or pants and he curses them to the Void and shoos them away the best he can, but he has no proper range of movement for doing anything lethal or properly deterring to the rodents. Has to rely on the kindness of the passing masses, who are forbidden from interacting with him directly.

They do talk to each other as they walk by though. Snippets of conversation drift with the wind over Teague. He sees them gesture about him, mimes of the noose and mimes of decapitation, as well as some lewd gestures often accompanied by immediate reprimands from workmates or badly hidden snickers.

If it weren't for the fact his mask was missing from his person, he'd sneer. As it is, he tries to keep his grimace as one of lax composure. Let the masses babble, he would not have to endure this _too_  long.

Hopefully.

\--

He thinks the night is the worst, because there are less people to keep track of the rats, who, in turn, get bolder. Flashes of tiny yellow teeth in the dizzying artificial lighting. There is an overseer assigned to stand right by the stocks, no doubt so Teague is not eaten completely ( _and how terrifying it would be to be eaten alive, feeling how the flesh is stripped from bone?_ ), but he only makes short work of them when they are on the brink of swarming. Teague thinks the man waits longer each time, and his life flashes before his eyes with each chitter. His heart races, blood doused with adrenalin, neck wet with sweat.

So long it had been since he'd last felt fear like this. Wriggle and writhe he might, but it was _not possible_ to get out of range of those clawed little paws. What an uncomfortable situation indeed. To think of what brought him here.

Was it worth it? He'd been much more sure in the day.

Still, the thought echoes nastily in his head. As it is, Martin despairs that, no, it`s not. Such a risk he’d taken, such a fall. What of Havelock and Pendleton? Those two devils lounge at the Hound Pits, no doubt, talking of a revolution and not doing what it takes to make it happen. _Their hands are still clean_.

His best bet is Corvo. If the man is what they had assumed. If he decides to help. If he really is not the man who killed the Empress.

If If If. Oh, how he despises the word more each time he hears it. The uncertainty it represents. He almost hears it in the sounds of the skitters of the rats, or the chitter of their squeaks. In the end, this could have been doomed to fail from the start. He’ll be dealt with by the Abbey, and the other loyalists will try to reach their goals otherwise. Or not. Martin was an important strategic asset. Perhaps they`d have no way of finishing the coup, or they would... doomed to _fail._

Heh. They`d have to put themselves on the line, then. No proxy to hide behind.

But now it was Martin in the front lines. Hardly fair, honestly. Especially because of not knowing what was happening and which gears were turning. And the waiting!-, the horrid slow drag of time that brought no fruit of fulfilment. And the _rats!_ \- bristling again just  this close to his person. The ‘ _guard_ ’ dispels them again, swinging a sword in an inelegant, lazy arch. But the critters, despite retreating, keep their beady eyes turned towards them, not once turning away. Waiting, as if they knew there would be a moment to bite, to gnaw, _to infect_. Uneasily, Teague regards them yet again and feels a cold hand of dread grip the base of his spine, cold sweat at the dips in his skin. He'd not had a dose of elixir in the day.

 _“If i don't get out soon, enough, I suppose you will take this city instead,” _he thinks morbidly and begins to recite the strictures in the space of his mind, trying to not hear their ugly, twittering laughter.

\--

He`s more tired than he has been for a long time in the morn. His  shoulders and arms are stiff and cramping and, now that his body temperature is back to normal, as the threat of the packs of rats lessens with each drowsy soul drifting through Holger square, his damp garments have gone cold against his skin. His fingertips are numb and unresponsive, his coat heavy but head light with mild sleep deprivation, adrenalin withdrawal and a growing hunger in the pit of his stomach. The gates at the far end of the square are blurry and moving, seemingly by themselves, even when he tries to keep still. Martin remembers many days starting like this, many years ago.

Some time after midday, when the sun is high and has warmed him, and his head lolls forward in a steady rhythm because of fatigue, an overseer comes and pulls the lever to release him. Teague falls to his hands and knees, disoriented, but gathers his wits soon enough that it prompts no taunts. He can not, however, mask the slight stagger in his steps. Another overseer waits by the entrance to the cell block.

They lead him down into the basement and feed him something they claim to be food, but it tastes like he imagines river muck does. They don’t address him even once, though, and that speaks volumes of how much trouble he’s in. He`s still grateful for the single glass of dirty water they give. It helps, though barely, as it leaves a taste of iron and dirt on his tongue.

It's marginally better than the muck.

But better something nasty in his stomach than nothing at all. He feels envigorated now, much less like he's about to fall over at any second, even if his shoulders still feel like shit.

Next come the cuffs, shiny iron 'round his sore, raw wrists. At least this time his arms are bound behind him instead of spread on either side. They also tie a blindfold on him, which is just slightly redundant, as he knows the layout of the Abbey rather well. Teague supposes it's just a common practice.

_(that`s not the point)_

They walk him through many corridors and up lots of stairs, and only two possibilities flicker in Martin's mind. It's either the Interrogation room or Thaddeus's office again for him. He's not sure which he'd prefer. Both seem like a sticky situation to get into... or, hopefully, _out_ of.

They lead him through a set of doors and when he does not immediately smell blood mixed with cleaning chemicals, he knows it's not the Interrogation chamber after all. He kind of wants to cuss at something loudly.

"You may leave us. I will converse with the accused myself. Return to your duties."

Campbell's voice sounds loftier, louder than yesterday, though still as relaxed. Teague hears the guards exit, their carpet muffled footsteps like thuds of his heart. What happens now? Will Campbell just leisurely talk to him like yesterday? That doesn't seem too likely. Martin swallows and wishes the blindfold gone. Even from Campbell's unreadable face he could gauge the situation better than now, blinded as he is.

"Have a seat, why don't you? It's more comfortable than standing all the way over there, I'm sure."

Teague hears the snicker and the edge of mockery in his voice. Sit where, exactly? He can't see the goddamn chair, if it is still where it was yesterday, and will not take the floor like some trained _mutt_. He opts for staying as he is, even squaring his shoulders and thinning his lips in Campbell's general direction.

Thaddeus chuckles then, heartily, an edge of impending violence sharp in the sound.

"That was but a jest, _overseer Martin_. No need to take on such a grim countenance! We shan't dally here," a sigh, though not one of exasperation, "We'll head to discuss your predicament soon enough. But first, _a drink!_ "

Head to? Oh, that bodes ill. Cold sweat prickles his nape and he can't contain the nervous fidgeting of his limbs. The chain of his cuffs jangles loudly. Martin imagines it makes Campbell smile.

There is a clinking of glass and the sound of liquor pouring once, then again.

"Morlish whiskey. _You_  ought to appreciate."

Teague tenses. That _ bastard._

Campbell's footsteps are very loud as he comes over, as if he were putting his entire weight in each one. He rests the edge of the glass to Teague's lips, who doesn't open his mouth.

"Oh, you jest, surely! If I need you dead I'll do it so that all may see your heinous body go limp, not with _poison_! Besides, I still need you alive. For _now_ , at least."

Campbell's voice sounds almost exasperated. But the argument is sound enough to get Teague to part his lips, or perhaps it’s just that he doesn’t reallyhave a choice. Campbell tips the glass. The whiskey really is good, heady. Burns down his throat and rumbles like a furnace in his stomach.

Martin can't help but lick his lips. The infinitesimal buzz in his head is pleasant. He hasn't had alcohol in a long time. The overseers were an abstemious bunch, usually. Such pleasures were not indulged except in the time of the Fugue Feast. He hears Campbell swallow his own liquid fire and thinks how if this situation were different, he'd ask for another shot.

_"Well?"_

Campbell asks in what is no doubt his friendly voice.

"It certainly is must be a rarity in these times. The spices leave a pleasant aftertaste. And, is that a hint of lemon balm? An interesting choice indeed."

This is impersonal banter. This is stalling. He thinks he sees Campbell's smirk widen in his mind.

"In that case, no harm in another."

Campbell repeats the process of pouring the drinks, ever so slowly, but when he goes to tip Teague's glass, a finger brushes against Martin's jaw, worn leather on stubble. It kills the pleasure of the liquor somewhat and makes him uneasy. Campbell makes no vocal indication on whether the touch had been an accident.

He drinks his own dose in a single gulp. Sets both glasses down with a clear, crystalline sound.

"We best be on our way, then."

A hand winds through the nook between Teague's arm and side, Campbell taking him by the elbow and pulling their sides flush together. Martin squirms, trying to put some space between them, but the desired effect is not achieved, instead the High Overseer seems to tug him even _closer_.

It seems to be a scare tactic but Martin still curses under his breath.

He does not know how closely the other is studying his face or how Thaddeus's eyes shimmer in an ill manner at his discomfort.

They make way through the halls briskly, Teague stumbling all the while because of how he is tugged along and because of the fact that Campbell doesn't bother to warn him where protrusions in the footing are, as well as where the stairs end or begin. At one point Martin trips so severely that Campbell lets go and he goes sprawling into a heap, crashing on his side as he can't break the fall with bound arms. But Campbell yanks him back up and continues walking as if nothing had happened at all.

His ribs will surely be bruised in the morning.

When they've walked down a great number staircases, Martin first hears it. Muffled, but the sound is unmistakable. Barks from the wolfhounds that filter through even the thick metal doors to the kennels.

Martin's heart skips a beat. Surely, he wouldn't. He _couldn't_. The very concept is too cruel. Were he to choose between being ripped apart by the beasts as torture or confessing, he'd take his chances with the jury! He`s seen the aftermath of hounds more than once. Crippled faces revealing bones like they were a filling for pastries, lacerated clothes and skin. Those who survive more often die of infection than not. The public and the gutter scum alike fear the hounds of the overseers for a reason.

For the first time since the beginning of this procession, Teague Martin places a foot in front of him with the intent to brace against the force pulling him.

Campbell stops at the feeling of resistance, looks quizzically over his shoulder at his captive. Even in the bare lighting of the basement, he can see the way Teague has gone pale as a sheet, mouth a tight frown. What was it that spooked the man?

"Do you find... something frightening, overseer Martin?" Already? He hasn't even begun yet. How amusing.

"You intend to intimidate me into confessing with the hounds."

Campbell hears the question in the statement. Looks to the left, the door with the plaque saying ‘To Kennels’ next to it and laughs, as he'd actually momentarily forgotten the kennels were so close to his... personal room. The laughter makes Teague turn to a stiff length of marble next to Thaddeus. He doesn't find the situation funny in the least.

"Oh, it seems you don't quite understand the situation, overseer Martin,” he says the name with something like a sneer, ”But you are an intelligent man, aware that there is a hidden room in the Abbey - my sanctum. Are you not?"

That causes Martin to relax just the slightest. Alright, so no hounds. But what Campbell is implying is worrying in a whole new way.

He nods jerkily once, affirming his knowledge of the hidden room's existence.

"Well then, I can tell you that that is where we are headed. The route is just incredibly similar. So no, I do not intend to intimidate you with the hounds."

Suddenly, he grabs the back of Martin's head with the hand that isn't through Teague`s elbow, half by the hair and half by the blindfold, and tugs his head until his mouth rests almost upon the other's ear.

"I intend to fuck you with my cock."

Martin stiffens again, taught as a drawn bowstring, and tries to pull backwards, away from this blasphemous fiend in a holy man's garbs. The idea is appalling! It is disgusting!

Because Martin has no way to twist the situation to his favour. Has no resemblance of control over Campbell. Has no defense.

Then, the High Overseer yanks him along again, now with much more force as Martin no longer let's himself be led like a pup on a leash, bracing his feet and cursing. There's only so much a bound man can do to resist though. Soon enough Campbell has him shoved against the wall to keep him from struggling, weight braced against the vaguely slighter man.

With his free hand he presses the gem of Holger's eye inwards, and the wall moves with a groan, revealing the cove behind the wall. Martin stills under him, obviously listening intently, trying to make sense of the sounds.

Once the opening is sufficient, he shoves Teague through, leading the man to stumble. Campbell uses the time it takes for Martin to find footing to press the button at the back of Holger's skull that stops and then reverses the the movement of the stone slab, ducking inside the room before it is shut off.

"Seems we're alone now, overseer Martin."

The humor in his voice is dark even if the lilt is not. Campbell heaves Teague all the way up by the back of his suspenders.

"Yes yes, surely that must be a _positive_  turn of events, you filthy _sack of shit_."

Teague damn near snarls. His hackles are standing and he is much too hyper-aware of where their bodies touch through clothes. Campbell places his arm around Martin's neck in a loose imitation of a chokehold almost lovingly.

"Now, now. Are you quite sure that is the the correct tone to address the High Overseer with? _Hmm?_ "

The arm tightens so that the nook of Campbell's inner elbow is snug, almost tight, against Martin's throat. He walks forward, and the other has no choice but to do the same, the top of Thaddeus's thighs pushing against the back of his, propelling them. Like a puppet in strings.

"You dare call yourself that with what you have in mind? How _vile_."

It is a snarl this time, but it ends up choked as Campbell tightens his hold further. His breath is uncomfortably warm against the shell of Teague's ear.

"I must say, I did not take you for someone who would take the inherent need for purity in clergymen seriously."

It's a murmur as much as it is an amused chuckle, a nasty truth that this fiend is alluding to and Teague's face and neck heat up. From shame or anger, he knows not. Yes, of course. He had come clean with his past to the Abbey and his days of outlaw still stood like giant shadows over him, but his oaths for making a change in his own life had been mostly sincere and he has stuck to them as closely as he could in the circumstances. That his contacts still kept in touch was not relevant.

"You'd be _surprised_ , Campbell, about just _how_  seriously I take it," he growls in answer, trying to knock the man in the gut with his elbow.

Campbell evades and stops leading him forward, then, and releases Martin's neck as he shoves him to sink to his knees.

Martin hadn't expected the ground to be _soft_.  His mind races for an explanation. It seems too bothersome to set up to be just for him. Then he recalls the rumors of what Campbell does in his sanctum.

These are mattresses on the floor. Suddenly, he notices the lingering smell of cheap perfume and bodily fluids. Can almost see undergarments littered around. This man would take him like a whore from a brothel.

How dare he. His gall was unbelievable.

Teague growls low at the back of his throat but does not lash out. He hears Thaddeus come around him and crouch. There are hands undoing the buckle of his belt, and Teague flexes his jaw, simmering anger making him light-headed from how he has nowhere to unleash it, for what could he possibly do to stop this? What leverage has he, weakened and tired from his day in the stocks, against someone with a well-rested body and sharp mind? If he fought back, to what end would it be? To whose _satisfaction_?

No, Teague Martin knows how to correctly judge a situation, and in no version of this does he come out on top. Unless the sick red-jacketed fucker turns out to be into that, but that is a horrible, horrible thought that roils his stomach and which he does not wish to consider.

Once the belt and suspenders are removed, Campbell moves again, behind Teague this time. One hand comes around to Teague`s front, picking at the buttons of his overseer's coat. Campbell leans forward, chest to Martin`s back, looking over the bound man`s shoulder so the unbuttoning goes faster. When done, there is a click and a clink, and one, _just one_ of Teague's hands is tugged away from where it had rested against his back, to the side and held there. But Martin still perks up - the cuffs are undone!

It is probably the best and last chance Teague will get to struggle. If  Campbell is foolish enough to give him a fighting chance, Teague will make him regret it. He leans forward suddenly, only to swing backwards, smashing the back of his head into Thaddeus`s face, who yelps at the blow. Never one to miss an opportunity ripe, Martin frees both hands, one still with the cuffs attached and yanks off the blindfold as he makes to stand. A sudden kick to the back of a knee that makes something _pop_  stops that movement rather effectively. Teague goes down with a groan of pain and frustration. Campbell, though still clutching at his face with one hand, goes to pin the man with bodily weight by dropping onto him, one elbow crashing into Martin`s spine.

It knocks the breath right out of him. He tries to wheeze his lungs full, but the action is impeded by the weight on his back, so he opts for small shallow breaths instead. They are still hard to  draw, and he feels faint. Then, with the hand previously clutching his nose, Campbell pulls Martin`s head back by the hair, smearing blood as he grips it. The action forces Teague to bend his spine backwards and complicates breathing further, and soon there are black spots in his vision from lack of oxygen. Campbell must sense this, as he lets go and gets off, but Teague is too dizzy to use the chance to resist at the moment.

The High Overseer flips his captive over to yank Martin forward by the white collar of his black undershirt with one hand, shove the heavy woolen garb off his shoulders with the other. The coat, once removed completely, is thrown to some distant spot on the floor.

Martin has regained enough lucidity to snarl like a beast, baring his canines. There is a fierce light in his eyes, and Campbell knows the fight is not out of this one yet, so he'll just have to be quicker than Martin. He seizes the hand with the cuff and locks the other ring around a nearby chair's leg.

It's not the most effective pin, but the chair is heavy enough to at least impede movement considerably. The other arm he restricts for the moment by placing a shin on Teague's upper arm, which is responded to with another growl and an attempt to throw Campbell off. Then he picks up Teague's suspenders and ties his other hand, fixing them to a suitable protrusion on the wall.

Having lost the window of opportunity, Martin stills somewhat, but it’s obvious that, given half an opportunity, he’d excite again.

Campbell looms over him, and now that the blindfold is out of the way Teague sees the maelstrom in his shadowed eyes. The visage is further darkened by the blot of blood, Campbell`s swelling nose in the center. It drips from his chin to his jacket at odd intervals, darkening the fabric.

“You have quite the spirit, overseer. I can’t say I expected such _brute_  force from you, as you've always seemed like the type to pick fights wisely, and resolve them otherwise when possible. But that _might_ be the wrong assumption to make. After all, what use has a _highwayman_ or _ paid soldier _for speaking if not of the terribly profane? Silver tonguing merely a habit to take up, then, for someone like _you_. ”

There is a terrible glee in Thaddeus`s face as he speaks. Something deeper and uglier than mere anger over a superficial wound. He is more invested than he wishes to appear outwardly. He leans in and the blood ends up dripping on Teague now, who is just reigning in his own turmoil. ‘Do not lash out when he goads you, for that’s exactly what he wants in the first place’

“Ah, how _nice_ of you to research my record, High Overseer. I can’t quite decide whether I’m flattered or disgusted. Perhaps both, even.”

Martin manages to retain a poised sound, but inwardly he bubbles anxiously. He does not like this position at all, for what he has gleaned of Campbell’s history isn't nearly as incriminating as what the man as on him. Cursed be The Outsider.

“Oh, Martin. Do not try to trick me into believing this is the first time you have noticed. I always take interest in my overseers, but especially one with such connections as you. Such men are hard to come by and exceedingly useful, if they don't spend their time _being problematic_ ," a long-suffering glare "Perhaps you have forgotten overseer Leopold offering special privileges a year back or so? Or is it that you just weren't sharp enough to figure he spoke in _my_  stead?”

He leans in further, still. Bared teeth white against the bloodstain of his features. ‘Come on,’ it says, ‘bite! I’ll rip into you like you were my last meal!’

“I certainly had some severe suspicions. It’s why I refused him.”

This serves to make Thaddeus very angry, if the way his hands fist into Martin’s shirt is of any indication. Or the growl.

“Do you think yourself better than us, mongrel?

"Do you place your filthy self on a pedestal because of the morality you claim to have? I’ll show you your purity, your faith right here on this floor! I’ll make you beg for my _mercy_ , for _my_ favour!”

He begins tearing at Martin’s clothes like the starving tear at hunks of bread, eyes aflame. Martin is actually frozen at the moment, the shock of such animosity towards has him reeling, and from High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell, someone who had been attempting to be amicable in all previous (though sparse) interactions, no less. Does freeing Corvo warrant such behavior to this level? No, it could not possibly be.

Suddenly he remembers a dream he’d had, some time ago. A toneless voice and the sound of sea air. ‘You've unknowingly spited someone incredibly powerful, my dear. How uncareful of you.’

That’s what this was about, wasn't it? Petty revenge.

Men like Campbell had egos the size of whales. Martin would laugh hysterically if not for the realization this pitfall he found himself in was deeper than the thrice-damned sky was high. Yes, truly, usually, this’d be amusing, but there is a fine line between entertainment and danger and he finds himself _on the_ _wrong side_.

This unnerving reverie is cut short when Campbell yanks Martin’s shirt open and digs his nails into the flesh at Teague’s ribs. He hadn’t even noticed Thaddeus removing his own gloves. Or coat, now that he observes. He looks like wants to stain his white undershirt as red as the garb he had shed.

Thaddeus grinds the heel of his palm into Martin’s right side with fervent gusto and it’s made clear why when pain like a sledgehammer blow ripples there. It’s the side Martin had fell on, now a nasty, darkening bruise. Teague grinds his teeth, lip curling upwards, a groan of pain caught in his larynx.

Childish glee lights up in Campbell’s face. He grinds his palm down harder, drawing another choked sound from the man ‘neath him, not letting the pressure up until Teague’s eyes screw shut completely, head leaning to the side in an obvious show of pain. Then he sits back, face split into a horrid smile, admiring the view, one hand attempting to wipe what blood remains on his face absently.

“You sound _delightful  _when in pain.”

Teague regards the crooked grin on Campbell’s face through one slit eye, the other still shut. The situation needs to change immediately, he decides. 

“Listen here,” he rasps, biting back all other acidic replies, voice strained, “we are men, not animals. What do you say we just sit back and discuss the situation?”

It’s a long shot, appealing to a monster’s kinder nature. Especially when the monster is right upon you and licking your blood like sweet honey. But Teague thinks he’ll sleep better in the nights to come (for he like to believe there will _be_  nights to come) if he knows he tried. It won’t help, not really, but he’ll know.

Campbell tilts closer, one hand taking Martin by the chin, and stares right into his face, eyes like those of a hawk, albeit madder looking.

“The only thing I want to discuss with you right now is who else was in on letting Attano out of the cage. Or alternately, how much you can't wait until I fuck you.”

He says it softly, like whispering a child to sleep. The other hand goes to the buttons of Teague’s pants, whose reply falls uncharacteristically flat, chipping at the end.

“I’m quite afraid we’re at a loss of what to talk about, then.”

Martin’s watching Campbell, who has his eyes trained lower, and notices the slight surprise (and disappointment? apprehension?) in the man’s face when he finds Martin is not aroused in the least. It’s not really a surprise. Still looks like it wounds Thaddeus’s pride just slightly, though. That`s what you get for only ever bedding whores who have to _pretend_ to want it.

It is a fitting moment to attempt and deter the man again, suddenly forced to pause in his actions. Martin pulls his arm closer, rattling the chain on purpose to further throw Campbell off. Make him taste reality.

‘It's not too late to back out,' 

In the end, it has some kind of effect. Campbell pulls Teague up from his reclining position, setting him to kneel. He wipes his bloody face with the back of  hand. He`s settled inwards, contemplating. Good.

Then gets up and goes over to a cabinet, on which there is a bottle of liquor and a case of cigars, as well as a smaller vial with bluish, almost clear liquid inside. Whale oil, probably. He tries to not imagine what it’s used for. Thaddeus lights up one cigar, blows thick and billowing white smoke in Martin's direction.

He appears to be weighing pros and cons of possible continuations of this encounter. One hand twitches at his side. He stays like that for a minute or so.

When he comes back over, it is with the bottle in hand, cigar between teeth.

Teague meets that unreadable gaze with smooth indifference, trying to look nonthreatening and relaxed, but confident. He accepts the end of the smoke and takes a drag easily when Campbell proffers it. The taste is rich and almost creamy, reminiscent of a hazelnut tree pyre. Must have cost good money. He blows a ring with the smoke just because he  can.

Thaddeus snubs the ember on the floor after one last drag, white ashes on the grey rock. Then he takes a hearty swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the the back of a hand afterwards.

Perhaps the smoking and the drinking are way for Campbell to suppress neurotic urges, Martin muses and swallows the liquor when Campbell offers.

"Not as good as what I gave you upstairs, but fine enough, eh?"

Martin opts to answer non-verbally, doing something between a nod and a shrug. The High Overseer looks half like he’s expecting something. A formal apology? Small-talk? Information? Martin’s mind races, thinking of what he could offer that seemed sincere but gave away nothing. But his mouth is going dry from how the malleability leaves Campbell’s face in increments each passing second. And here he’d thought he was out of the frying pan.

Something akin to realization flashes in Thaddeus's eyes and then his face darkens. He rises to his feet with a start, snarls _"you wretch!"_ and throws the bottle across the room. It shatters into a thousand glittering shards, and the remaining alcohol goes splashing everywhere. Martin is embarrassed with himself over how bad he startles. Years in the quiet corridors of the Abbey have sensitized him to such sudden sounds. _(He's gone soft and every time an old survival reflex fails to kick in fast as before he tells himself it's for the best, even if it doesn’t feel like it. )_

Campbell walks around, face like ice and just as impassive, to the kneeling man's back, mindfully stepping over where Teague's arms are held away from his torso by the restraints.

"Did you think you could trick me so easily, Martin?”

He drops down behind Teague, knees between his, forcing them wider apart.

“That some emotion as feeble as _guilt_ would wrap me around your thumb?"

He’s growling, deep, and it feels like the sound echoes in Teague’s bones. _Not good not good not good not-_ Both hands come around Martin's waist, to the hem of his undone pants to pull them down until they rest mid-thigh, taking the drawers with them.

One of Campbell’s hands stays there, on the exposed skin of an upper leg. It’s dry and the skin is so coarse.

Teague wants it gone, feels like an exposed nerve, but Campbell just chuckles.

He wants to revel in Martin's discomfort, to humiliate this tenacious, wonderful being who had denied his gifts and instead had bitten the hand that fed. Yes, Martin was unacceptable.

That was the point of this.

Because High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell had a system, and even though it was not an official one, it was to be obeyed by all overseers of the Abbey. The underlying idea of the system was basically _“give the High Overseer what he wants and you get to live another day._ ” And yes, there was the occasional incorruptible pawn, but Martin should not be such. He should be easy to tug to Thaddeus’s side. Void, he should be open to the idea, at the least.

And yet he’d fiddled with some third party, no more than a pack of rebels with no names and no faces. And Campbell knew all the richest of the city were with Burrows just as he, so they were probably _poor as filth,_ with nothing to offer. To think Teague had chosen them over him.

Again, it was unacceptable. This mistake, if not made right, ought to be at least punished. And, oh boy, did Campbell have a punishment in mind. For what would be worse than making this traitor scream in pure agony?

Well, to put it simply, making him scream in _pleasure_. Sick, wretched pleasure.  Make him feel as if struck by electricity. And, if Campbell himself managed to gain some gratification also, that was just a lucky coincidence. Not the intent.

Teague Martin _would pay._

Campbell slides the hand that'd been on Martin's thigh to firmly squeeze his behind and hums in approval. It makes Teague feel like a cut of meat being inspected before consumption. And perhaps the thought isn't too far from the truth because the next thing he does is gently chew on Martin's earlobe, hot breath to skin warmed by humiliation. That... didn't feel nearly as bad as it should. His skin raises into gooseflesh, but his mind immediately recoils. Disgusting.

Campbell trails a hot and wet stripe down the side of Martin’s throat, nudging the collar out of his way with his chin until he reaches the top of a trapezius muscle, into which he sinks his teeth. Not hard enough to bleed, but it still hurts. And then one hand comes around to Teague`s stomach, trailing lower to grip him by the short hairs. It pulls his hips forward, making him lean his torso back into Campbell to compensate for the overbalancing. By the Void, he could feel the heat seeping through both their shirts, and somewhere on a near subconscious level he also felt the thrumming pulse of the effervescent heart.

Martin felt a schism form within himself, then. The half that howled strictures in all the rage and righteousness of the wronged - the half that was more overseer than man. And the half that had slunk through the gutters, looking for all the world's revels and seeking satisfaction in whatever loot or favour it`d earned, hedonistic and cruel.

The half that was appalled and the one which was excited.

Were it time for the Fugue, he supposes he would be much more at peace with this. Maybe even if he’d come here anything but bound. But the situation was simply… wrong. He was a prisoner being forced. And, he supposes from Thaddeus`s earlier outburst, being taught a lesson. What he wanted did not come into the equation… did it? Campbell had said he wanted to discuss only the loyalist plot or bedroom activities, so what would happen if he cracked?

He supposes in a regular environment he could lie a way out of this. But  here? He was nervous, oh so frightfully nervous with the mouth now sucking bruises in the skin where neck met shoulder. Ah, it’d be near impossible to tell an all-convincing untruth here. And he was sure that Campbell would be able to tell, if he tried. Would taste the lie as it dripped as sweat from his heated flesh.

The hand pulls his hips further, making him bend into a steeper arch; Campbell`s teeth find his collarbone and Teague has half a mind to rip off a piece of the hagfish bastard`s face with his teeth. In fact, they damn near itch with anticipation. Is it because of the liquor or the anger? Ah, he could barely tell anymore. Their swirling mix made him feel intoxicated, lightheaded. Responsive. Some stray thought makes him lean into Campbell more, and it earns him a wet open-mouthed kiss on the skin of his collar.

“Oh Martin, you little _weasel_. You taste of filth and deceit.” Thaddeus’s murmur vibrates in his muscle strands. It’s gotten awfully hot here. Teague is _ so_ glad his coat is gone.

_Disgusting disgusting disgusting disgusting disgus-_

But woe betide him, that felt so nice. It really had been too long.

No. He would not give in so easily. He would hold on to the shreds of dignity he still had. He would-

The hand switches to grip a hip instead, and pulls backwards, aligning their pelves. Martin can feel the stiffness at Campbell’s groin; again, one part of him is severely scandalised and  the other- almost eager. Lightning cracks up the length of his spine. He is not entirely sure what he wants at the moment.

Alright, he had to think clearly. Despite the mouth that had moved to the other shoulder, Thaddeus dragging his tongue there in large stripes that tingled when left out in the air and his open shirt to bare the tops of his scapulae. This was not about interrogation thus far, it seemed. No one was demanding information. And Campbell was going through the effort of working him up, too.

He’d hate himself afterwards either way, so why not give up? It’d still be incredibly disgusting and wrong and sick, but it would have been his choice. Not anything worse than what he’d done as a highwayman, really. The only difference was the abbey-oriented set of morals he’d acquired since. _What is one more tick on the list?_

Martin did not want it to be like this, but that was the thing about life. You get with it or you suffer the consequences and misery. He grinds back and ignores the resounding chuckle, but Campbell seems to take it as a prompt to take things further. Bastard better make the fuck worth his time, at least, Martin thinks bitterly.

The hand leaves his hip and Teague restrains himself from looking over his shoulder to see what it will do next. That’d be kind of pathetic. But he does hear the sound of… some kind of cork being pulled from a bottleneck? That really piques his curiosity, but a hand comes to shove his torso forward, and Teague almost flops over because how easy does this snake of a man believe keeping balance while restrained this way is? His indignant yelp garners no verbal response, though.

He almost jumps out of his skin when fingers spread his buttocks. Two humiliating responses so quickly one after the other. He grows redder with shame. To be fair, he had been expecting it. It’s just that he hadn’t actually _been ready_. It feels abnormal. Not really pleasurable. Just abnormal. Martin hadn’t really been on the receiving end for this. More or less sober, at least. Was it supposed to feel like this or would the feeling change?

Thaddeus leans forward touching his still-clothed chest to Martin’s back. Martin has to angle his rear even more backwards to avoid falling over, hands attempting to flail in the limited reach they have. Again. Really, Campbell?

“From you fidgeting I gather you don’t do this often. I suppose I pegged you wrong.” There’s the unmistakable sound of a smile in those words. Martin thinks he grows even redder in the face but it’s probably debatable. Most of the blood currently not in the groin region is already there. Again, he is not sure what agitates him more - the feeble shame of being out of practice or the fact that Thaddeus had assumed him a capricious pleasure-seeker. Probably the latter.

Of course the wicked project their own values on others. Liars doubt the truthfulness of statements; thieves never leave their belongings unchecked and unaccounted for. A whore understands no abstinence.

Thaddeus was such a whore.

Campbell licks the back of his neck and then blows cool air over it. The contrast in temperature makes Teague twitch. Then his attention ventures down. He can tell fingers have been added, but he can’t really say how many without looking. It feels more fulfilling. And stimulating, the flow of the ebb and wax, falling into sync with something primal inside. Knots of pleasure tighten leisurely in his stomach and he tries to keep his breathing paced. It still hitches with the movement sometimes.

Then, it feels almost uncomfortably slippery. Obscene. Campbell obviously wasn't sparing the oil. A hand comes to keep Teague steady, laid flat just below the navel. It’s much appreciated because Martin’s thighs have begun shaking unsteadily. And the hitches in breath become more prominent and often with each thrusting motion or Campbell’s hand.

Campbell drags his teeth along Martin’s spine in a slow and torturous journey down. Martin almost suppresses a shudder, and his hackles rise. Ah, this was good. So far, he corrects himself, but his mind is sort of getting scattered by speckled nips of incisors at the moment. He decides to blame the alcohol that it affects him so.

Campbell’s fingers press in deep and Martin chokes on his own tongue when he tries to swallow the saliva that had gathered in his mouth at the same time as groaning. Another shudder.

Then Campbell withdraws completely. It takes a moment for Teague to realize, muddled as he is at the moment.

“Wha-?” he croaks lamely. Licks his lips. The wall in front of him offers no answers on where the stimulation had gone.

“Beg me to fuck you.” Campbell’s voice is breathless and low, but he’s ways off better than Martin is.

So this is what had been building up. Another power game. Teague tries to fight the haze in his mind. It’d be so easy to comply. Should he, though? He swallows and kicks himself mentally. He had to get a grip on himself. _Now._

“And if I,” a pant, ” _don’t?”_

Campbell gets very close to his ear again, breath wet and carrying the lingering odor of salt, alcohol and smoke. Some voice at the back of Martin’s head says he looks exactly as he imagines he does. Like the pillager king, eyes and teeth glinting in victory because he has Teague right where he wants him. Needy and panting, on his knees like some twisted prayer. Except there is no Abbey deity here, just the visions and ghouls of the profane, leering in sick mirth and the despoiling of the cleansed.

A shiver of fear, a sliver of doubt. It had sounded like a command because it was. Refusal did not exist.

“Then I might just,” still breathless but light, uncommitted, “  _not._ ”

The statement is belied by body language. He’s shuffled closer behind Teague, radiating heat as if he were a furnace. One hand comes to the juncture between Martin’s hip and torso, gripping oh-so tight to get traction despite the layer of sweat there and the whale oil from before still on it.

Martin swallows again, grabbing at the tangled shreds of control he’d let slip. He could play this.

Campbell wanted games? He’d get games, more than he’d bargained for. His sword of choice was double-edged.

It is a weighted decision. Campbell was first on the Loyalist hit list. If Corvo were to come, all evidence of this incident would be with Teague alone. He doubted Campbell would let it past the walls of this room.

If Corvo didn’t come, well-

He’d be dead or banished by the end of the week.

Either way, he could act the desperate satisfaction-seeker with no repercussion from outside for _now._

Martin leans in to the body just behind his, taking special care to press his rear into Campbell’s groin. There’s a gasp. He smirks, finally feeling back in his skin. The grip on his hip tightens in warning, but it feels like victory. He makes a show of throwing his head back and groaning - a strained little sound. The response is Campbell stiffening, which he feels only because he’d ended up with his nape to the man’s shoulder.

His heart judders. This was so bizarre. He’d never wanted to be this physically close to the High Overseer ever. Which meant thàt maybe what he was currently doing was not his best idea, but oh well. He had to finish what he’d started.

He gives another grind back, and immediately Campbell’s other hand comes to grip the other hip, keeping Martin still. His breathing is ragged and loud. Wonderful. Martin’s smirk widens. Campbell tries to compose himself with deep inhales and slow exhales which tickle Teague’s neck.

Eventually he succeeds, and what he does next is something Teague had not expected at all. The first thing he thinks is ‘his hands are really fucking large’ and the second, just at the first one’s heels ‘is he seriously strangling me during sex?’

His bewilderment turns to panic when the hand tightens, cutting off blood flow and besetting his airways. Suddenly, he does not want to risk with this game. Still, it tightens even more and he protests, trying to wriggle from the grip. The pressure in his head builds, a faint high-pitched drone in his ears. All the other sounds turn faint, as if far away.

Honestly? Seeing Martin struggle only makes Campbell’s desire intensify, tongues of flame licking at his insides. This had been a calculated series of actions, designed to defile Teague Martin. And oh, how it had worked! Thaddeus’ pride, which had been smarting since the subtle rejection of his well-meaning intentions, swells with a feeling of satisfaction.

In the silence of his mind he admits he’d dreamt of this. All the sweetest fruit are rotten at the core, he knows. But the rot has eaten right through him, and he does not regret it one bit, would let it happen again - if only to have moments like this.

His core is molten metal. Oh, to the Void with this. He was in a good enough mood to fuck this bastard without making him beg.

Campbell shoves Teague face first into the mattress. The bound man sputters and wheezes, blood and oxygen rushing in, making his head spin, and still he tries to rear back and up, so Thaddeus shoves again and grabs him by the top of his thighs. The muscles in Teagues back ripple just so where the edge of his shirt has ridden up.

“Keep still!” he barks, and, perhaps because he’s still in a daze, Martin obeys, tensing. He can’t look behind himself with his face pressed into the mattress, but he has a pretty good idea on what the other is planning.

Campbell undoes his trousers and briefs and lines up. Grabs Martin’s hips yet again and pushes in. And maybe the oil hadn’t been enough after all, but it does not exactly hurt, even if it feels extremely uncomfortable and tight and weird. Martin tries very hard to relax, thinking that maybe it wouldn’t feel as bad then. Thaddeus tries very hard to keep still, thinking that he felt so drunk on power, he’d burst if he moved as much as a millimeter. It takes a while for both to adjust, and the worried knots of muscles in Martin’s abdomen relax somewhat during.

Campbell draws back and eases in, and it still feels just wrong instead of good. Martin finds himself worrying. He’d played along for this? _Pathetic._

But when a hand finds his cock on the next thrust, the situation changes. He makes a sound into the mattress - something between a whimper and a gasp. Yes, it definitely changes.

Campbell moves in two separate rhythms and it drives Teague up the wall. They’re completely out of sync, so he can’t steel himself for them and he ends up muffling shameful noises into the fabric against his face.

The earlier haze in his mind returns with a vengeance, heavy pleasure and hot hands on his skin. Like waves of melted wax running, burning and thick, over him, leaving him sticky and smothered. It’s so hard to breathe, and Campbell rakes his nails over Martin’s skin a few times and it’s nice and repercussions be damned at the moment and he wants this to never ever ever stop. He lets little whimpers and long, tight moans through continuously slackening teeth.

In time, orgasm ripples through them like lightning, and they come down panting obscenities and praises to deities they don’t worship.

Martin is on the brink of unconsciousness, fatigue finally catching up to him the way a speeding rail-cart catches up to a hobbling citizen in a narrow tunnel. He literary can’t move a single muscle, and his eyelids droop, the world a fuzzy swathe of colours. He sees Campbell get to his feet, bracing himself to not collapse.

Then it goes black.

\--

He is awoken again by a slap to the face that has him reeling. Except his hands haven’t been unbound so it ends up and awkward flop.

“Ah, finally awake. Good. I need you conscious for this.”

It’s hard to grasp the words through what feels like an ocean of mud in his mind. Reality and being awake are too much of a bother. Teague closes his eyes, but another slap and a bark from Campbell makes him open them again.

Scornfully, Teague starts cataloguing his surroundings. He’s laying more or less prostrate now, as opposed to having his knees bent and rear in the air like before. An improvement, surely. He’s still in the same state of undress as when he’d gone cold, though. That’s not any better for him. At least he currently has a more or less unobstructed view of Campbell, who's kneeling next to him. Another talk?

Uh, scratch that. Interrogation, more likely. The dull gleam of a knife shimmers between Thaddeus’ thick- but surprisingly nimble- fingers. Suddenly very awake, Teague tries to tense, he does, but his body still feels incredibly lax in the aftermath of sex. Campbell notices, though. Of course he does.

“This is not for what you think it is for.”

It’s probably meant to intimidate him, but Martin finds he is pissed off instead. Still, not having a means to show his aggravation in any other way, he snarks.

“Wow, you certainly have a way with words. So fucking clear.”

Thaddeus laughs. Teague wants to punch his teeth out. He’d always been surprisingly opposing after coupling. He always was, but mostly in the safety of his head. Due to his state, his inhibitions were appallingly lacking at the moment, though.

“Well, alright then. Do you know what will happen to you tomorrow, Martin?”

He doesn’t risk answering, opting to narrow his eyes instead.

“We'll get all that… _juicy_ ,” he pokes at Martin’s abdomen with the tip of the knife to illustrate the point, “information out of you. By any means necessary. Hah, maybe you’ll even last longer than a day, feisty little fuck that you are." Another -stronger- nudge, and that sickening smile is pulling at Campbell's lips "And then we’ll execute you, since you didn’t want to play nice.”

Well, that’s nothing Teague couldn’t have figured out by himself and they both know it, so Campbell wasn’t finished yet. The shark-toothed grin on his face promises hell.

“But I just want to give you a little something to remember me by, short as the rest of your life might be.” He slides the length of the blade’s edge against his fingertips, light enough to not wound but strong enough to hint at what's coming. Teague finds himself dreading what the memento might be, skin tingling in grim anticipation, but some part of him is furious.

Had this fiend no sense of satiation? Was what he’d drawn from Martin already not enough? How dare he suckle tributes from another as if he deserved them. How dare he leech the droplets of dew from a desert he’d made himself.

Campbell moves in with all the grisly fluidity of a vulture, straddles Teague’s torso, knees tight and constricting at his captive’s sides. The hand that wasn't holding the knife fiddles with the undershirt to expose both scapulae and the slight dip of the beginning of Teague’s spine. Martin bucks in attempt to throw him, blood boiling. It's not effective, and Campbell stays lodged as he was.

"Would you look at that. You're already covered in scars. Guess you weren’t _that good_ a pickpocket. Ha. I better make this deep so it’s visible, then."

Martin bucks again, a growl slipping through his grit teeth. He gets a blow to the side that disorients him greatly for the trouble. Small sparks dot the edges of his vision, Campbell's voice and next words sounding like through water and the ringing of bells.

“Settle down now if you know what’s good for you, mutt!”

He does not want to comply. Each muscle fiber in his body, each blood vessel swells with fury, with bloodlust. He wants the crunch of bones under his knuckles. He wants the gurgle of blood flooding a throat. He wants the soft yet firm give of flesh against the toe of his boots. He wants violence and revenge and revenge and revenge and justice.

He settles down anyway because the winner of this fight is clear. Soon enough, Campbell will pay. Be it with life of position, it mattered not. Corvo could do it. He would, some dark voice whispered into his ear. He would, but no one would like the outcome of this campaign.

Well, screw what was good or bad. Martin will take what he gets, be it blood, bone, or muscle, and make a throne for himself when this is done.

Let this wretch have his fun. Soon enough, he whispers under his breath when the blade touches his scorching flesh, cold and harsh.

Soon enough, he repeats when it drags along in a jagged line. Then two. Then three. Some of them curve, others are straight. That doesn’t matter, because blood from either still seeps into his shirt and drips onto the mattress.

Martin does not scream, just grips a the fabric of the mattress so tight his knuckles go white just as Campbell does not jeer, eyes flashing determined and dark. No more would he  be ignored or belittled.

Skin parts like paper, muscle severs like ground under a plough. Martin does not know what the mark is of, but if Thaddeus does not tell him now, then he would almost be content to never find out at all.

_Soon enough._

The end of the procedure is signaled with a rough cloth mopping up the blood on Teague’s back. Campbell revels in his work, a breathy laughter in time with the strokes of the cloth. Martin has a tension ache in his jaw.

Thaddeus gets off and there is the sound of a gun cocking a few seconds later, and Martin tenses immediately. He feels rather than sees one of Campbell’s hands come up to undo the restraints on one hand. The cuffs chink together softly.

“Unbind yourself. No sudden moves.”

He takes the threat to heart, making sure both his hands are visible as he unties the other hand. His own suspenders. The irony.

“Now right yourself. You’re going back to the stocks.”

He does up his trousers and briefs before he dares turn around to look at Campbell. They’re a mess. He’s a mess. Every-fucking-thing is a mess. Shame paints his face red, shame drips like thick oil down his throat, dampening barbs and remarks before he can spit them. Any defiance now would be just an artless attempt to save face. Martin should be better than that.

Sure enough, Thaddeus stands tall, having already righted himself when Teague was unconscious, no doubt, gun pointed at Martin’s chest. Victory burns like a fire in his crooked face. The victor. Martin refrains from hanging his head in submission. He was no dog to subside like one.

He was a man. Shamed, humiliated and used, yes, but not crushed. Never that.

_Soon enough._

He buttons up and tucks the undershirt. It stings on his shoulder where Thaddeus had carved his mark. He hopes it won’t become infect.

He has to hide the wince when he takes that first step. His knees feel weak and he is sore. And still, watching Campbell through his peripherals, he feels a glimmer of manic joy. Something hysteric and borderline unholy.

 _Soon enough_ , hehe. _Soon enough_ , haha.

He clenches his jaw again to keep from laughing, goes to retrieve his coat. It is damp and reeks of sweat, much like all his other clothes.

But when he is fully clothed again, the mirth does not disappear. I bubbles just beneath the surface and keeping an even face is as difficult at trying to school a pack of poorly trained hounds into not not running after a skittering rat. The edge of his mouth twitches, just barely. Campbell’s face turns severe.

“Do you find something funny, mongrel?”

Perhaps something in him is just that depraved of conflict or perhaps he’s just discovering some long-suffering death-wish, but he answers with a grin:

“Yes! It’s just that, _hah,_ you won’t hold out, _ha_ , much longer now!” and he breaks into a truly out of character fit of laughter, doubling over.

“Are you begging me to fucking shoot you?” Campbell is pissed, but Martin can’t quite help himself. What a stupid situation. Through chuckles he musters,

“You said yourself you’ll kill me later, not- _ha_ \- now! Oh, but by the Void!I can’t wait to dance on your filthy, _haha_ , fucking grave.”

“By the Abbey-, Martin, have you gone mad?” the shout is indignant. Thaddeus is sufficiently horrified. What was Teague talking about? Did he have allies in the Abbey, men loyal enough to pose a threat to the High Overseer himself?

“No, it’s just- _haha_ \- it’s just that you can’t stop what you _can’t see!_ ”

Campbell feels his blood run cold. What could he not see? What could _he_  not _see_? He, who had spies and informants that gathered the webs of lies and deceit like bees gathered honey, all to lay before him and his black little book. He, who had almost if not as much political power as the Lord Regent himself. What morbid information! What a way to inspire panic in the heart of man!

Thaddeus does the first thing that comes to mind. He brings his fist to Martin's temple and knocks the laughing devil out.

\--

Martin wakes up in the stocks due to a low sound that vibrates through his body the way foghorn blares do. His head hurts and  everything aches and his neck and arms are cramping terribly. Was it a Holger's machine? Who the fuck knows.

The sounds are too sharp and the light is too bright. When he tries to look around, his stomach lurches and he backs down immediately. There are shifting shadows on the tiles, small and almost flickering, seemingly talking to one another.

What? Is this some trick of the eye? A joke from the Outsider's clutch of curses?

Ah, no. Those are just rats again, sniffing for something to devour. Do they ever cease the search, he wonders, leaning to get a better look at the small scuffling feet. The sluggish state of his brain keeps him from remembering he’s susceptible to infection as of now. He watches them pitter over the cement and tries to remember. When did he get back here?

What happened? He remembers being taken for interrogation previously, but what had-

Oh. He groans in distress. Damned be the fucking Void, that worthless sack of shit Campbell and all his nasty tricks and lies.

His stomach lurches again and he gags. Has to swallow the bile back down. Think strategically, just _think_.

Vomiting would do him no good, especially since he had no idea when food would next come. And anyway, the only two people who knew about it were him and Campbell, the rotten fuck.

And soon enough, that  number would be down to one. When his mind tries to go into the other branch of the abstract "if", he shuts it down mercilessly. Corvo would come. There was no other way. No other outcome. Not anymore.

Just settle back, don't piss off anyone while helpless in the stocks. This was child's play. He could play this, he could.

Strategise later, now was the time for waiting. Relax. Breathe. Wait.

Martin forces the tension from his muscles with sheer determination, eyes glinting.

\--

Corvo Attano comes that very evening. 

**Author's Note:**

> First time doing a k-meme fill. Also first time writing nsfw stuff. Ahh, I just kept dancing around the nasty bits every way I could. Hah.
> 
> Critiques are welcome! ōOō


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